


Fault Lines

by Sarahtoo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-03 07:11:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10962285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo
Summary: After a terrible day for the Victorian Police Force, Phryne works to pick up the pieces.





	1. Chapter 1

The day had started out predictably enough. Phryne and Dot were working on case evidence on the dining room table when the call came in. Mr. Butler, who’d been cleaning the floor in the entryway of the tracked-in detritus of the previous evening’s storm, moved smoothly to answer it.

“Miss Fisher’s residence,” he said in his calm, warm voice. “Yes, she is. And who may I say is call—” he broke off, and Phryne, who’d been listening with only half an ear, lifted her head to look toward the phone. He was quiet for long moments, making notes on the small pad Phryne kept beside the phone as the person on the other end spoke.

“Yes of course,” Mr. Butler finally said. “Thank you. I’ll pass along the message. She’ll be there as soon as possible.”

He hung up the phone and met Phryne’s eyes, his hand resting for a moment on the receiver. She could tell by the look on his face that it was not good news.

“Is everything all right, Mr. B?” She rose from her chair, vaguely aware of Dot rising too. _Please, not Jack. Don’t let it be Jack._

She and Jack had been pursuing a romantic relationship since they’d returned from London, and though they still kept separate residences, it was more like they had two houses—each was fully welcome in the other’s space. Phryne had never considered that she might want to live with a man again, not after René, but Jack made it easy. She didn’t think that she could bear it if Jack was injured, or worse… no, that was not to be considered. She focused her attention on Mr. Butler again, who was walking toward them now.

“That was the station. I’m afraid that there’s been a shooting,” he began, his eyes shifting between herself and Dot, and Phryne’s knees wobbled until he reached out to take Dot’s hands in his own. “Hugh is alive, Dorothy,” he steadied the younger woman as she abruptly sat down again. “But you should go to him.”

“Get your hat, Dot,” Phryne said, the tightness in her chest easing only slightly. “I’ll drive you there.”

By the time they reached the hospital, Dot seemed to have stiffened her spine, though her eyes were still tight with worry. After checking in with the nurses and finding that Hugh was still in surgery, they settled into the waiting room, side by side.

“He’s going to pull through this, Dot,” Phryne said firmly. Hugh’s injuries, they’d been told, were serious but survivable. She wondered, not for the first time, where Jack was. Usually, the two men worked together. Pushing that thought aside, she focused on Dot. If something had happened to Jack, she’d know. Not through some mystical connection, but because someone at the station would notify her. She had faith in that.

“He needs to be, miss,” Dot replied, her face white and strained, “a child needs its father.” Her voice was tight, as if she was restraining herself, but strong. Her hand rested gently on her stomach. She’d only told Phryne about the babe the week before, and it had been obvious just how thrilled Hugh Collins was with the idea of becoming a parent. 

“It’s going to be all right,” Phryne assured her. “He’s so strong, and he loves you—loves you both—so much.” She wrapped an arm around Dot’s shoulders as her friend’s face crumpled. Dot buried her head in Phryne’s shoulder— _that’s this jacket ruined_ , Phryne thought wistfully—and sobbed out her fear.

The hours passed slowly and, unable to sit still, Phryne went intermittently to see what she could learn from the nursing staff, but no matter how much she wheedled, they wouldn’t tell her anything. When she looked up from watching Dot knit something impossibly small and saw Mac in the waiting room doorway, relief flooded through her. 

“They’re finishing up now,” Mac said, sitting down beside Dot. “He’ll be coming out of surgery shortly, and once they’ve settled him, they’ll come and get you.” She’d laid a hand over where Dot’s gripped her knitting. “He’s going to pull through just fine.”

Dot’s smile was tremulous, but relieved. “Thank you so much, Dr. Macmillan.” 

Mac looked up at Phryne and jerked her head toward the door. Phryne nodded and, with a soft squeeze to Dot’s shoulder, got up to follow Mac across the room.

“What aren’t you telling her?” Phryne’s demand was worried. “Or me—is Jack all right?”

“Jack’s fine, as far as I know. He wasn’t with them.” Mac said, brushing back her jacket to prop her fists on her hips. “But Phryne, Hugh had taken another constable with him. That young man is now on the table in my morgue.”

“Oh no,” Phryne breathed. “Who was it?”

“His name was John Baker. Very young—just twenty, according to his record. Christ, he looks as if he’s barely old enough to shave.” Her mouth tightened. “Damned waste.”

Phryne nodded, her thoughts immediately turning to Jack, who would have had to notify the boy’s parents. She supposed this would mean their evening plans would have to change—and that thought seemed awful and petty even as it passed through her mind.

“And the gunman?”

“In custody, along with his brother.” Mac shook her head. “Two policemen shot? The man will hang, and the worst of it is that it wasn’t even him the constables were there for. People can be so stupid.”

Phryne nodded, looking back over at Dot, whose head was bent over her knitting again. In the time they’d sat here, Dot had created a beanie, two tiny booties, and the first several inches of a blanket, all in the same cheerful yellow yarn.

“I’ll admit, I’m very thankful that our Hugh was spared the brunt of that man’s stupidity, though,” Phryne said quietly. 

Mac made a soft sound of agreement. “Right. I’m off to finish my duties. You’ll be all right?”

“Yes. As soon as they let Dot in with Hugh, I’m going to the station to see if Jack needs anything.” Phryne knew that Jack, even as he worked the case, would be beating himself up for the death of his constable. He took everything to heart, her Jack, and this would hit him hard. He wouldn’t let his constables see the cracks in his composure, but they’d be there. 

“Good,” Mac said quietly. “That’ll be good.” With a solemn nod, she moved past Phryne through the door, and Phryne went back to sit beside Dot again, tamping down her impatience to see Jack. It wouldn’t be long now, and Dot needed her.

===========

Two hours later, Phryne arrived at the station. Mac had been right to say that it wouldn’t be long before Hugh was out of surgery, but Phryne hadn’t been able to leave Dot alone until he actually opened his eyes, and that had taken almost an hour in itself. He wasn’t truly coherent, but he had recognized Dot and had gone back to sleep. The relief was immense. 

Now it was twilight, but she expected to find Jack still at his desk, saddened and buried—no, that would not be a comfortable metaphor right now— _up to his ears_ in paperwork. So she was shocked to sashay past the front desk and see that his office was empty and dark. Turning from the doorway, she fixed her eyes on the constable who stood behind the counter, his eyes on her, and watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

“Constable Gregory!” She flashed a bright smile and walked over to lean against the desk. “Have you seen the inspector?” The young man swallowed again, and his cheeks flushed red. Poor lamb. Phryne thought she had seen him a time or two, but truthfully she couldn’t remember—she generally didn’t stop at the desk, but went right into Jack’s office. Hardly anyone tried to stop her these days.

“He… um… he’s not here, miss,” he finally squeaked out, his hands clenching the edge of the counter. 

“No, I can see that,” she said carefully. Ordinarily, it pleased Phryne to reduce men to stammering incoherency, but at this moment, all she really wanted was a straight answer. “But do you know where he is?”

“He left, miss,” Gregory said, and seeing her eyes narrow, he hastened on with, “but he said he was going home for the evening!” He blew out a short breath, as if in relief that the words had come out in the right order.

“I see. And when was that?”

“I’m not… really sure, miss. Perhaps two hours ago? We got the word that Senior Constable Collins had come through surgery all right—” Gregory stopped, eyeing Phryne.

“I’ve just come from the hospital,” she reassured him, “where I was sitting with his wife. He had opened his eyes and spoken when I left.”

“Oh! That’s excellent news, thank you, miss.”

“And the inspector…” Phryne let her voice trail off, the question obvious.

“Right, sorry. Yes. The inspector got the news, and he sort of… sighed, and then, well, he left.”

“I see. And Constable Baker’s family? Who notified them?” Phryne tried to keep the question casual. If Jack had been here, he’d have given her a knowing look and tilted his head in that way he did to let her know that he knew exactly what she was up to. Constable Gregory had no such wiles. He didn’t seem to notice that she was pumping him for information.

“Oh, that was the inspector, miss. Right after Baker… after Baker was killed.” Gregory gulped again, his expression serious. “Baker was a good man, miss.”

“I believe that. I’m so sorry for your loss, constable.” She reached out to lay her fingers on the young man’s wrist. The constable glanced down at her fingers, then back up at her face and gave a surprisingly mature nod of thanks.

“Tell me about what happened?” Phryne spoke softly, withdrawing her fingers and meeting his eyes, which had grown solemn.

Gregory’s jaw clenched. “Collins and Baker went to pick a man up for questioning who was implicated in a burglary; one Walter Petree. Walter has a brother, Davis. We thought Davis was in Sydney, but instead he was there at the flat, and he was armed. We aren’t sure of all the details—when Collins is awake, we’ll ask him—but the constables that came in after said that Walter tried to run, and Davis shot at Baker, supposedly to try and scare him off. Lucky shot, he said.” His upper lip curled in a sneer, and he suddenly didn’t look young anymore. “Not for Baker.”

“No, I’d say not.” Phryne agreed quietly. “And Collins? How was he injured?”

“He heard the first shot and went in. Broke down the front door and tackled Davis, but not before Davis got off another.”

“Oh god,” Phryne whispered. Things could have been so much worse—she could have been consoling Hugh’s widow rather than waiting for him to wake up.

“We have them now, though, miss,” Gregory went on. “And neither of them will be going free.” His voice was grim. “They murdered one of us, and we won’t forget that.”

Phryne nodded. That poor boy. And Collins—he’d be distraught when he learned of Baker’s death. And Jack. Jack would be deeply shaken. The thought brought back the moment when she’d stood looking into Jack’s empty office. His desk had been covered in papers, as if he’d just… stopped what he was doing and left. That wasn’t like him. Jack wasn’t one to shirk his duty, even if there was someplace he’d rather be. No, if he had stopped working, it was because he couldn’t do the work. And that rang warning bells in the back of Phryne’s mind. She hoped that _deeply shaken_ hadn’t become _cracking under the pressure_. She needed to find Jack, and soon.

“Well,” Phryne said, gathering her bag and stepping back from the counter with with a small, sad smile, “you said that the inspector had gone home; I’ll look for him there. Thank you for your help, constable.” 

“Of course, miss,” he replied, his throat bobbing again as he watched her leave.


	2. Chapter 2

Phryne pulled up in front of Jack’s house, its usually cheerful exterior seeming gloomy in the shadows of the evening. No lights were on, but she could see Jack’s police-issue car parked up the street. Perhaps he wasn’t actually here? It was possible, she supposed, but she feared that he wasn’t—that he was sitting inside, alone and in the dark, struggling with his demons.

She’d considered, as she left the station, that he might have gone to Wardlow; after a moment, though, she’d decided that when Jack said “home,” he meant this house. That was, for the most part, not an issue, but if he had gone to ground, as it were, to lick his metaphorical wounds, she wished—if only for a moment—that he would think of _her_ as his home. But that was all right. She would just have to show him the meaning of that word. Clenching her teeth in determination, Phryne killed the Hispano’s engine and pulled the hand brake. 

She moved up the path to Jack’s front door, listening carefully for any sound coming from inside, but she heard nothing. At the door, she slid her lockpick out of her brassiere and opened the door in moments, stepping silently inside and closing it behind her with a soft _click_. A smirk played at the corner of her lips—she’d given Jack a key to Wardlow, but she rather thought he enjoyed that she could get to him without one. She enjoyed it too.

“’Zat you, Miss Fisher?”

Jack’s voice, deep and blurry, emanated from the sitting room at her right. Phryne laid her handbag on the hall table and moved around the corner. She could see him, slouched in his armchair, outlined in the moonlight that came in through the sheer curtains over the front window. In the pale light, he was a statue formed of cool marble, all planes and angles, his shirtsleeves glowing white against the darker fabric of his waistcoat. When he moved, the glass of whiskey he lifted became the only discernible color in the room, its deep amber illuminated by the cool light of the moon.

Phryne’s appreciation for the picture he made, his hair tousled and his tie loose, his feet propped on a tufted footstool, was matched only by her concern for his mental state. She’d only seen Jack this way once before, when he’d gotten a report that she’d died in a car crash. And even then, he’d been drinking at his desk, not alone and in the dark.

“Y’ shouldn’a come here,” he said, before taking a drink from the very full glass of whiskey he held.

“Well, I couldn’t very well let you have a nightcap without me, could I, darling?” Phryne stepped into the room, stopping by the drinks table to snag a glass—she’d seen the bottle sitting on the floor beside his chair. It was half full, and she remembered them finishing off his previous bottle only two nights ago, so he must’ve been drinking since he arrived here.

“I’m not fit for company.” He laid his head against the high back of the chair, going still again.

“Would you rather I go?” She crouched beside him, her hand on his knee to steady herself as she set her glass on the floor and lifted the bottle to splash an inch of whiskey into it.

“Doesn’ matter what I want,” was his reply, his deep voice gravelly. “You won’ want me anymore when you see me as I really am. Rosie didn’.”

“As you really are, Jack?” Phryne stood, glass in hand, and met his eyes. She had heard those two mumbled last words, and knew that his ex-wife had left her own scars on this man, but she didn’t address them for now. Instead, she said softly, “I know exactly who you are.” 

“You don’. You don’ know.” Jack shook his head wearily. “’M a murderer.”

“What rot,” Phryne said mildly, even as her heart squeezed. She’d known that he would take the death of his man to heart, but she hadn’t realized it’d be this serious. She turned, trailing her fingers down his leg as she moved around him to sit on the end of the sofa nearest his chair.

“No. S’true.” He lifted his head and raised the hand that held his glass, his index finger extended to point at her. “Baker is jus’ the las’ in a looooong line of men I’ve killed.” He drew the o out, his hand waving in a gesture that seemed to indicate the number of ghosts he considered his victims. “Baker and Josephs and MacInnerny… and Fredrick and Barnes.” He took another deep drink of whiskey before continuing. “And thass only the ones since I got back from the war.”

Phryne recognized Baker’s name, of course, and she remembered that a Sergeant Josephs had been killed in a gang-related scrum the year before. The others she had to think had been men under Jack’s command who’d lost their lives in the line of duty.

“You are not to blame for those men’s deaths, Jack,” she said softly.

“I am.” He nodded strongly. “I chose ’em for duty, I sent ’em out, I didn’ do _enough_ ,” his voice was rising, “to keep ’em safe.” He took another swallow from his whiskey glass. “There’re six children who don’ have fathers, four women who don’t have husbands, five mothers who _don’ have sons_ , and ’s because of _me._ ” He thumped his empty hand against his chest, his voice searing, and suddenly clear. 

“I _knew_ that Petree had a brother, Phryne. I knew that the brothers were close. But I didn’ have eyes on him in Sydney, and because of my _oversight_ ,” he practically spat the word, “that young man is dead. He’ll never make sergeant, never marry or have children, and _that’s on me_.” Jack threw back the last of his whiskey and reached to fill his glass again. Phryne noticed that his hand on the bottle was shaking; it clinked softly against the edge of the glass.

“You couldn’t have known that Davis Petree would come to town today, darling.” Phryne watched him set the bottle down and drink again. Her chest felt tight. The pain he was feeling was so obviously real, and though she didn’t agree with where he placed the blame, she could understand the impulse.

“But I _should_ have.” Jack’s voice was flat, his words beginning to slur again. “Thass my job. To know things like that. To keep them safe.” He drank again, shaking his head and baring his teeth as the whiskey burned down his throat. “That’s what the superior officer is supposed to do, and I’m the superior officer.” His head thumped against the high back of the chair and he closed his eyes, murmuring, “I’m the superior officer.”

The words acted like a key turning in a lock in Phryne’s mind. In wartime, the men on the front often had to make decisions—to go into battle—on incomplete information. Perhaps if there had been better communications, some of their men might not have died. And Jack had been an officer on those front lines for a time. How many men had he had to send off on incomplete intelligence? How many of those men hadn’t come back?

“Darling Jack,” she said, leaning forward, her whiskey glass dangling from her fingers, “even the most superior officer is only human.” Her voice was soft, tender with understanding as she angled her head to meet his eyes. “You do what you can and hope for the best. That’s all any of us can do.”

“His parents, Phryne,” Jack whispered, and even in the darkness she saw the tear trickle down his cheek. “He was their only child, and I had to tell him that their son was dead due to my negligence.”

“Oh Jack,” she whispered. 

“Superior officer,” he murmured. “Inferior, more like.” He took another swig of his drink and turned his face away from her.

Phryne took a mouthful of her own whiskey, not knowing quite what to do. Jack’s quiet confidence was so compelling—it had never occurred to her that he had moments like this, where he doubted everything. Her heart was breaking for his pain, but in a way, his imperfections made her love him more. He was, in so many ways, a better person than she—this moment made her realize that he was like anyone, with cracks and fissures that he was holding together by sheer strength of will. Perhaps he just needed someone to help shore him up for a little while. 

Leaning forward, Phryne set her glass on the table and stood. He looked at her, and she could see the outline of his eyelashes against the pale light of the moon as he blinked, long and slow.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Fisher,” he said softly, his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry that I’m not the man you thought I was.”

“I’m not leaving, Jack,” she shot back.

He lifted his head from the chair back. “You’re not?”

“No,” she replied, eyeing him.

“Then what…”

“I’m going to put you to bed, Jack Robinson.”

“Phryne, I don’t think I’m up to—”

“I’m not going to seduce you in this state, silly man!” Phryne scoffed, then moved toward Jack and took his glass from his unresisting fingers, twisting to set it beside hers on the table. Turning back to him, she took his hands and pulled lightly. “Up you get.”

Jack moved as if he was underwater, slow and languid, but he moved. She wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but she had no intention of leaving him while the ground was this shaky beneath him. She also had no intention of spending the night—or letting him spend the night—in a chair, when she could hold him together so much more effectively if they were both prone.

“That’s it, Jack, walk with me.” Phryne led him out of the darkened sitting room and down the hall to his bedroom. Stopping at the end of the bed, she released his hands and began to undress him; waistcoat, tie, shirt, and undershirt fell to the floor with soft noises as he stood, compliant. When she’d pushed off his trousers and shoes, leaving him in only his undershorts, she stood.

“Go use the toilet, Jack, then come back.” 

He moved unsteadily through to the bathroom—thank goodness for indoor plumbing—and Phryne hurried out of her dress, pulling a short nightgown from the chest of drawers. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t bother, but tonight he needed comfort. She wouldn’t object to lovemaking—and with that thought, she rummaged for her spare pessary in the bedside table, inserting it quickly as she heard him returning—but that wasn’t her intention.

Jack paused in the doorway, swaying slightly. Phryne moved to him, holding out her hands, and he lifted his to grasp them.

“Come to bed, Jack,” she said, her voice tender as she tugged him into the room. 

She walked him to the bed, then released one of his hands to pull back the bedcovers. Urging him underneath, she followed him in.

“Now, come here,” she murmured, and pulled him partially across her body so that his head rested on her chest and her arms and legs wrapped around him. She had the passing thought that if they’d been at Wardlow, her tub would have been perfect for this. Still, this way would work.

Jack settled against her with a heavy sigh, his arms winding around her. 

“You, Jack Robinson, are as far from an ‘inferior officer’ as I have ever seen,” she whispered, running her fingers through his hair. “Your drive for justice—not just the law, but actual justice—is so strong, and you let your heart help you make decisions, which means that your decisions are almost always the right ones.”

She felt him shaking his head against her, and the warm wetness of his tears against her skin.

“You aren’t perfect, my darling, but you’re frighteningly close, most of the time.” She continued to pet his hair as his shoulders shook, his ragged breathing the only sound he made. “What happened today was not your fault—”

“ _Was_ ,” he groaned against her, taking a great gulping breath. “Was.”

“No. It wasn’t.” Her hand in his hair made a fist, as if to underscore her point. “Do you trust me, Jack?”

He nodded shakily, his hair rasping against the satin of her nightgown.

“Then believe this. I would tell you if I thought you were at fault, I _promise_.” Her voice was quiet, but strong. She didn’t make promises she wouldn’t keep, and she was certain he knew it. “What happened today was not your fault. It was bad luck, that’s all.” 

He made a sound that might have been a sob but might have been her name, and his arms tightened convulsively around her.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. Her hand in his hair loosened, and she began to stroke him again, wrapping herself tightly around him. “I’ve got you. It’s all right.”

She held him as he cried himself to sleep. It was a long time before she followed him into slumber; she lay there, her eyes wide open, her arms tight around him as she kept watch in the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

Morning came early, it seemed. Phryne surfaced from darkness, feeling a hand softly stroking her hair. She scowled and had opened her mouth to complain when the events of the previous evening flooded through her. With a gasp, she opened her eyes, tightening her arms and legs around Jack. 

He smiled softly, his body warm beside her, his hair sticking up in tufts, and a crease that looked suspiciously like the lace edging to her nightgown streaking one cheek. She searched his eyes and saw pain—but she thought it might be the pain of the hung over, not the deep emotional well of despair that he’d been wallowing in the night before. Relaxing, she loosened her hold on him.

“G’morning,” she croaked, then cleared her throat to try again. “Hello, Jack.”

“Good morning, Miss Fisher,” he responded, his own voice raspy but warm.

“What time is it?”

“It’s early, I’m afraid,” he admitted, “but I need to go to the office and finish the paperwork that I neglected last night.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll come with you.”

“There’s no need, love.” He shook his head, his lips tilting in a tiny smile. “I think I can manage now.”

She searched his face. He did look as if he was himself again. Still...

“But the paperwork,” she said, her eyes keen on his face, “you’ll have to write up the report about the shooting.” She felt him tense slightly against her, and then relax with a sigh.

“I know,” he said, his fingers toying with a lock of her hair. “And I’ll need to have someone take Collins’s statement to include with those of the other constables. But Baker deserves that I make this case as airtight as possible. I won’t falter.” 

There he was, her confident Jack. She could see the determination in his eyes and in the line of his clenched jaw. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to stop in with lunch after a bit. Just in case.

“Well, if you’re certain.”

“I am.” He leaned in, his eyes on hers, and kissed her gently. “Thank you. For last night.”

Phryne shook her head. “No thanks are needed. Next time, though, don’t make me find you.” She lifted a hand to cup his cheek. “I know what it’s like to fight demons.” She shrugged. “You’ve earned yours, but you don’t have to fight them alone anymore.”

Jack huffed out a small laugh and shook his head. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’ll take it.” 

“Whatever you did, it must have been _very_ impressive.” She smirked at him, shifting her hips to feel his hardness pressing against the inside of her thigh. 

“Undoubtedly, Miss Fisher,” he murmured. “Shall I impress you again?”

“If you think you’re up for it, inspector,” she purred, her hand on his back sliding down to the base of his spine to pull him closer.

Dipping his head, he kissed her with smiling lips, more deeply this time. Phryne returned his kiss, her arm tightening around his shoulders. She arched as Jack’s hand slid from her back around to cup her breast through the satin of her nightgown, his hips surging against the sensitive flesh between her legs.

Phryne bent her knees, tucking her heels against the back of Jack’s thighs as he moved, the soft cotton of his undershorts whispering against the skin of her calves. She could feel the movement of his jaw under her palm as he kissed her, and the sweetness of his tongue as it dived between her lips brought a low moan from her throat.

With a growl, Jack’s hand reached for the hem of her nightgown, tugging it upward; Phryne lifted her arms to let him pull it over her head, and he threw it aside. She brought her hands down to his shoulders, stroking their strong curves before trailing her fingernails down the planes of his chest. He sucked in a breath as she scraped across his nipples, and she did it again just to hear the sound he made before moving downward to tug at the tie of his undershorts.

Jack planted his fists beside her on the bed, lifting himself up so that she could push the cotton down his hips. She took advantage of the space between them, once the garment was out of the way, to wrap both of her hands around his cock. The strangled moan he made brought a smile to her lips.

Jack met her eyes as she stroked him, her hands grasping loosely; with a smile, he began to thrust, moving his hard length through the soft prison of her fingers. Phryne kept one hand there and slid the other lower to gently cup his testicles, enjoying the warm, crinkly skin that covered them and the weight of them in her palm. 

As he continued to thrust into her fingers, she swept her thumb across his tip with each stroke; holding his eyes, she let go for a moment, lifting her hand to her mouth. She licked a stripe from the base of her palm to the tip of her fingers, then wrapped her now-wet hand back around him. Jack made a pleasured sound deep in his chest and began to push against her hand once more.

Phryne could feel herself loosening, the moisture of her body spilling over; the room was warm, but the movement of Jack’s body created small air currents that she could feel fluttering against the heat of her sex. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to feel the heat and the pressure of him inside her body. She gently closed her fingers around him and, with a tilt of her hips, pressed him to her opening.

They both groaned as he filled her. Phryne’s eyelids fluttered at the sensation; his cock was not insubstantial, and she loved how full he made her feel, particularly at his initial entrance. She shifted her hips, helping him find the angle that she liked best. When she settled, he arched a brow at her, and she lifted a languid hand to circle it in the air in a “go on then” motion.

Grinning, Jack leaned down to kiss her, even as he stroked out and then back in again; Phryne echoed the movement of his hips with her tongue between his lips, her hands stroking back up his sides to clench in the muscles of his back. Phryne’s eyes closed as she concentrated on the sensation of his body moving within her. Exquisite, and exactly what she needed, every time.

Jack’s thrusts built slowly, but he eventually lifted his head from hers, sucking air noisily between his lips as he pounded into her. Phryne watched as he threw his head backward, the muscles in his neck and jaw clenching with effort. When he tired, he tilted to one side, resting on his elbow. His head dipped to her breast and his hand stroked down her belly to delve between her legs as he continued to move shallowly within her.

“Oh, god, Jack,” Phryne gasped. The tripled touchpoints—his mouth drawing strongly on her nipple, his fingers stroking her clit, and his cock deep within—sent arrows of pleasure through her body, ricocheting along her nerve endings and drawing the coil of desire ever tighter.

In answer, Jack hummed against her breast, the deep tone adding one more dimension to the mix; it was just the push she required to tip her over into release. She screamed as she came, her body vibrating and clenching against his. Her heels dug into his thighs and her fingernails made half-moon depressions in the skin of his back and bicep, where she’d been holding on. When she opened her eyes, their lids heavy, it was to find him watching her, his cock still hard within her.

“Impressed yet?” 

Phryne laughed lightly. “Getting there, inspector.” She pushed against his shoulders, rolling him to his back and rising above him, her knees bent on either side of his hips and her hands pressed flat against his pectorals. Jack’s hands, freed, slid up her belly, leaving a trail of wetness behind as he reached to cup her breasts.

Covering his hands with hers, Phryne began to move, rising and falling against him. She felt Jack’s knees come up behind her, and his hips begin to move in tandem with hers, so that every stroke went deep and hard inside her body. Phryne’s head tilted back, her neck arching and her eyes closing as she concentrated on the sensations—smell, feel, sound—of sex. Biting down on her bottom lip, she breathed deeply before forcing her eyes open to look at Jack, whose eyes were fixed on her face.

“So. Beautiful.” The words fell from Jack’s lips in a whisper, and Phryne felt herself fall for him all over again. She knew that men liked the way she looked, but when Jack said it, she knew he didn’t just mean her outsides—he saw her down to her soul, and found all of her beautiful.

“Jack,” she said. Just his name, but it seemed like enough. Never ceasing the motion of her hips, she slid her hands down his arms and leaned forward to cover his body with hers. She tucked her hands under his shoulders, cupping them from beneath, and felt his hands slip along her sides to palm her ass. She could feel the slickness of sweat between his chest and hers, and of other fluids farther down as her hips lifted and fell.

With a grunt, Jack rolled them back over, and Phryne held him close—chest to chest—as he began his heavy thrusting yet again, his tongue in her mouth mimicking the thrusting of his cock. Jack slid one hand on her ass down her thigh to pull her leg higher against his side, and the widening of her hips allowed him to thrust even deeper. Phryne began to keen as his movements sped up, the sounds of slapping flesh and heaving breaths an earthy accompaniment to her pleasured cries. Jack’s mouth moved to her neck, his mouth warm against her skin as his breath gusted; Phryne’s head lifted as she sought to curl herself around him; she pressed her forehead to his shoulder, feeling her climax build. 

When orgasm finally overcame her, it _flowed_ —Jack’s muffled shout of release and the nip of his teeth against her neck joined with the warm gush of him inside her body and the shaking muscles of his stomach against hers to pulse through her in wave after wave of pleasure. Her muscles tensed, her hips tilting up to his in an attempt to pull him even deeper, and her toes curled. Where the previous orgasm had been a lightning strike, sharp and fast, this one was an earthquake, rolling over every inch of her body until, just for a moment, she couldn’t tell where she stopped and Jack began.

Phryne felt the prickling of tears at the back of her eyes and blinked them fiercely back before Jack could see them. He would worry, and it would be completely unnecessary. It was only the thought that she might have missed this—if she’d let the fear that had driven her so long keep her out of this man’s arms, if she’d let him go for his own good when she’d flown her father back to London, if she’d never issued the challenge to him to come after her… so many small decisions had led to this moment, and this moment was, well, it was everything she never thought she’d wanted, and everything that she now cherished.

By the time Jack raised his head to give her a satisfied smile, she was back in control, her own smile bright.

“Are you impressed now, Miss Fisher?” His voice, always deep, was lower still, and she could feel his words vibrate against her skin where they were pressed together.

“Well, _that_ effort will certainly earn you another attempt, inspector,” she teased softly.

He chuckled. “I suppose I’ll just have to keep working at it, then.”

“I applaud your work ethic. It’ll take you far.”

“For now, it will, unfortunately, have to take me to the station. I—” He had been pulling carefully away, his softening flesh sliding out of her body, when he stopped, shocked. “Phryne. I didn’t even think. I should have pulled out. I’m so—”

“Oh Jack, no! Not even for you would I take that big a risk.” Phryne’s voice was dry, but she lifted a hand to his face, her thumb rubbing across his bottom lip. She loved that he considered the possible consequences of their lovemaking as often as she did—that was something that many men wouldn’t do. “I took care of things last night. It’s fine.”

“Oh, thank god,” he breathed, his muscles relaxing. 

“Now go on, inspector. You have paperwork.”

“Sadly, I do.” He rolled out of bed, then looked back at her. “Are you going to stay here and sleep some more?”

“I might do,” she said, pulling the sheet over herself from where they’d pushed it off to the side and propping herself on one elbow. “But I want to go check on Hugh and make sure that Dot’s eating, so I won’t stay long.”

He grimaced a little. “I’ll call the hospital once I get to the office. You’ll let me know if there’s anything they need?”

“Of course.” She watched as he gathered up the previous night’s clothing, including hers, and tidied them away before pulling out fresh linens.

“You know, you were supposed to come to dinner last night. Perhaps we can try again tonight?”

His smile was quick and so subtle some would have missed it, but she’d made a study of his smiles. 

“I’d like that.”

“Good. Dinner will be at eight, and I’m sure that if you come by early, we can rustle up an appetizer or two.” She ran a hand over her sheet-covered hip, her smile inviting, and saw his eyes flash with renewed desire.

“And dessert?”

“Most definitely. I wouldn’t dream of missing dessert.” 

“Then I’ll be there as soon as I can get away.” He came back over to the bed, his linens in one hand and the day’s suit in the other. “Go back to sleep, and I’ll see you this evening.” Dipping close, he kissed her, his lips soft; tucking his face into her hair, he whispered, “I’m glad you stayed.”

“You’re worth it, Jack. Faults and all.” Phryne kissed him once more, a quick peck, then flopped backward against the pillows. “Now go on. You have work to do.” 

Her words were rewarded by his quick smile, and she let her eyes close, listening to him rustling about, getting ready. It was good, she thought as her mind drifted into sleep, that his cracks lined up so perfectly alongside hers. They’d muddle along just fine. Together. 


End file.
